The Drifter
by Tyranusfan
Summary: They think the handcuffs are enough. They think that they brought him here against his will. They're wrong. No one makes him do anything, anymore. Rated T to be safe. No spoilers. Set after Season 5.
1. Chapter 1

_Special thanks to Phx, who filled in for my regular beta for this one. _

_No spoilers. Set sometimes after S5. I own nothing. Reviews craved._

**SPNSPN**

**The Drifter**

He sits with his hands folded, watching the police officers talking by the door. They think the handcuffs are enough. They think that they brought him into this interrogation room against his will.

They have no idea.

No one makes him do anything, anymore.

The sheriff accepts a folder from the young deputy, and moves to the table, sitting across from him, just in front of the two-way mirror. That's one image he avoids.

Mirrors are not his friend. Every time he sees himself in one— Well, the mirror rarely survives the encounter.

"So," the sheriff begins, pausing to clearing his throat. He wheezes slightly on the exhale. _A smoker, eh?_ "The deputies stopped you on Route 61, speeding. No ID. No cash. No wallet. Not even a cell phone."

He lets a sliver of a smile crease his otherwise impassive face as the sheriff ticks off the facts on his fingers.

"The Charger was registered to someone else, from another _state_. There was blood in the back seat. When they went to read you your rights, you declined."

_Guilty as charged. _This is going to be a fun place to stay for a few weeks. Well, _he_ would think so.

"Care to explain any of that?"

"Just on my way to a family reunion," he says, mocking seriousness.

"Reunion," the sheriff repeats, staring down at the file. It is painfully obvious that the man doesn't believe him. Not that it matters.

"Yes," he said earnestly. The reunion part _is_ true. "Going to be a hell of a time."

"I'm sure," the sheriff replies snidely. His patience is clearly running thin, and the strain of it is showing on his face. The man should really mind his blood pressure.

"You know how tough they can be, Larry. Yours was a disaster." He says, relishing the way the sheriff freezes and looks up at him. More than doubt is crossing the older man's face now.

"How do you know my name?"

He lets his smile grow into a wide grin. He loves this part, where they begin to realize that he's more than he appears to be, not just layered clothes and flimsy cover stories. "You should have known better than to sit your aunt and uncle next to each other. The divorce was _way_ too bitter."

Larry's face is turning ashen now. Doubt is transforming to fear. When he speaks again, he's almost whispering.

"Who are you? How can you possibly know that?"

Adam shrugs lightly, simultaneously unlatching the handcuffs and locking the door with a thought.

"Let's just say I've been touched by an angel, in all the wrong ways."

**SPNSPN**

Three hours later, all twenty-three employees of the Grant County Sheriff's Department are dead.

Adam wipes his bloody hands with the towel, again. Sometimes it's just so hard to get it off. He discards the red-stained terrycloth and continues his stroll up the town's main drag. The street is lined with a few mom & pop stores and the usual assortment of discount stores, restaurants and boarded up theaters, like almost any of the small towns he's been through.

He's only six hours from Sioux Falls, and the urge to get there and start the little family reunion he has planned eats at him, like it has every day for the past three months, but he suppresses it.

_They aren't even there yet. Be patient_. He tells himself.

There's a thirty-something man in a sweater getting out of his car a dozen feet in front of him. The car is a 2003 Impala. Adam smirks. _Isn't that ironic?_

He intercepts the man as he's locking the door and smiles brightly. "Hey, man. Nice car."

"Uh…thanks." The man looks at him oddly. It makes sense, Adam's a stranger in town.

"I'm gonna need it. You don't mind, right?"

The man is predictably taken aback. "What? No! You can't have my _car_!"

Adam sighed. He should've have kept that towel.

END


	2. Chapter 2

_Set sometime after 5x22 "Swan Song," but it's not really set anywhere in season 6 in particular._

_A/N: I originally wrote "The Drifter" as a stand alone, and it still can be read as one. I just had some inspiration to add more to it, and this chapter is the result. _

_Thanks to Phx and geminigrl11 for their preview comments. _

**SPNSPNSPN**

**The Drifter Chapter 2**

_Hyannis High School, Room 112_

Adam shields his eyes from the blood spatter, then chuckles softly as he looks down at the girl's body—or what's left of it. Even by his standards, _that_ was satisfying.

A whimper behind him makes him turn, facing the Varsity-jacket wearing jock he crippled when he entered the classroom. The boy's face goes pale when Adam's eyes settle on him, and he glances from Adam to the three dead cheerleaders and back, terror contorting his face.

"What?" Adam asks, frowning as he follows the gaze to the three girls' cooling corpses. Their faces are obscured by their blood and tangled hair. Maybe a few bits of bone here and there. He shrugs and turns back to the seventeen-year old. "I told them it'd be mind-blowing."

Adam takes a step toward the boy, and he scuttles back, crying out as his shattering femurs drag along the floor. He's not going anywhere.

"Please…d-don't! Stay back!"

"Shh," Adam coos, crouching in front of the trembling form.

"Don't hurt me…p-please!"

Adam's already hurt him, so that doesn't make much sense. But, given how the slobber is dripping down the boy's chin, Adam doubts he's even aware of what he's saying.

"L-let me go! I won't t-tell anyone!"

"Actually, you will," Adam corrects him. "I need you to deliver a message for me."

**SPNSPNSPN**

Dean is leaning against the side of the Impala when Sam marches out of the Coroner's Office. Even on the Sammy Scale, his little brother's face looks grim.

Grant County is crawling with Feds of all shapes and colors. FBI, Homeland Security, ATF, even the freakin' National Guard. Fully three-quarters of the population of Hyannis is dead or missing, with no natural disasters to blame it on, and no witnesses to any criminal activity. Dean knows from experience that the authorities—those nameless "theys" and "thems" that run the world—don't like mysteries. Especially ones that seem like horror movies come to life. 'They' like explanations. The simpler the better.

It's one of the reasons hunters are so inclined to fly under the radar.

Sam reaches Dean but doesn't stop, making a beeline for the passenger side door. "Let's go."

Dean frowns at the tone and stands up straighter. He knows fear in Sam's voice when he hears it. "What? Where are we going?"

"Back to the motel."

"Why?" Dean asks as he drops into the driver's seat. Sam's got a manila folder in his hands, which he holds up as way of explanation.

"We need to talk to Cas."

**SPNSPNSPN**

"We've got a problem." Sam says quietly when the angel flaps into their room.

Castiel, ever ignorant of human interaction, doesn't seem to register the abruptness of the greeting. "Hyannis?"

"You know?" Dean asks, expression dour as the angel joins them by the table.

"Such a sudden migration of souls does not go unnoticed," Cas murmurs as he folds his arms in an all-too-human posture of concern. "As yet, we have no indication of what could have done this."

"Well, we have." Dean motioned to the photos. "That's Enochian, isn't it?"

The question is rhetorical. Sam's already identified the language—having seen so much of it in the past few years—but couldn't translate it. Castiel is intrigued, and sits down across from them.

"Yes. An older dialect." He looks up at them. "This was found in town?"

"On a crucified body," Sam replies glumly. "His legs were broken, then he was nailed to a cross. Can you read it?"

Cas is already reading it. He nods slowly. "Hmm. Bizarre syntax…."

"What does that mean?" Dean leans forward, staring at the bloody lettering.

"It's…it's as though whoever wrote this was not a native speaker. It was an acquired skill, I guess you'd say."

"But, you can make out the words?" Sam asks, arms folded in front of him on the table.

"Um…yes." Cas frowns as he reads. "It reads 'paying back…to be…a female dog.' Hmm."

Sam's brow creases in confusion. "What?"

Dean rolls his eyes, sighing softly in exasperation. "I think you mean, 'payback is a bitch.'"

Cas, oblivious as usual to the intricacies of English, nods agreeably. "Ah, very well. And, then here it reads "'I will see you soon.'"

"'Payback's a bitch, I'll see you soon?'" Sam echoes, glancing at Dean. "Who would write that in Enochian?"

"I don't know," Dean shakes his head, still staring at the mutilated body in the photos. "But, I know we need to track this thing down before it gets to another town."

"That may not be wise."

Sam and Dean both look over at Castiel, who's glaring at a third photo of the body. "Why?"

Cas turns the photo over, so they can see more bloody letters spanning the teenager's pale clavicle. "Because the message begins: 'Hello, Sam and Dean.'"

**TBC**


End file.
